friends, watching the feeble lamp of life as it burned flickering
in its socket. The grandmother and aunt had been summoned from an
adjoining village, where they had gone upon a visit the previous
morning; and Emma, a sweet cousin not two years old, stood wondering
why little Mary did not smile upon her, as she usually did, for she
had never looked upon death.

Mary had ever been a fragile child. But her mother had clung to her
with all the devotion of a mother's love. Anxiously did she watch that
little pale form, pressing it to her heart, and gazing upon it with
fond maternal pride, day by day, and night after night, unmindful of
food or sleep, so that she might relieve the suffering of her precious
babe; and ever would she say it will soon be better. One week
succeeded another, and still there was no change for the better. But
oh, how deep was the fountain of that mother's love, and the feeble
wailing of that dear infant moved all its secret springs.

A physician was consulted, who spoke hopefully, but nothing seemed to
help her.

Through the summer months, the salubrity of the air revived her some,
and the mother would wander with her round the garden, placing the
sweetest flowers in her hand, or sitting beneath the shade of trees,
she would listen for hours to the murmur of the summer breeze that
sighed among the branches, or the humming of the bee as it sipped the
sweets from surrounding flowers, delighted that her darling Mary might
thus inhale the pure breath of heaven. And when those large, soul lit
orbs were closed in sweet slumber, and the little fragile form could
rest for a short time, the mother would lift her heart to God in
gratitude and thanksgiving.